Stop, No Go
by planet p
Summary: A meeting at a diner during the festive season.


**Stop, No Go **by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

Inspired by the word 'ice' in Chapter 2 of TracyM's _Bathed in Possession_, and Bella slipping over on the icy path in the film, _Twilight_.

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She sat inside the orange booth, folding little napkin stars out of the red and green festive serviettes, as a constant stream of harried, unhappy people passed on the pavement outside the window she sat beside, gloomy as the grey weather they trod through and which adorned the sky above their eyes, level with the footpath, or the impatient traffic passing in a shuffle.

She'd tried a bell, three serviettes back, but that hadn't worked out, so she'd fallen back on the stars, and wondered if she'd be able to manage a reindeer, and remembered how she'd skidded on the ice on the pavement in front of a department store; the back of her pants were still wet from the fall, and it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, though the slip had been much more uncomfortable to her pride than the wet, cold material was to her skin and her backside, slowly turning numb on the hard, unpadded plastic.

She finished her sixth star, and placed it atop the small pile she'd amassed in front of her on the laminated, yellow speckled tabletop; a garish, hideous match for the hard orange plastic of the booth's seats, and the red and green serviettes and 'Santa' salt and pepper shakers.

If she was able to pull it off, the reindeer would be for the jolly, round fellow and his jolly, round duplicate. _Here's one for you, and here's one for Mr. Clone. Ho, ho, ho!_

She shot the pair of 'Santas' a sly, devious look, and popped a snow-white marshmallow into her mouth from a bag she'd purchased at the matching speckled yellow counter. "None of these for you, Santa _Une_, and Santa _Deux_," she remarked to the unblinking jolly, round fellows she was sharing company with at the yellow table.

It was the Season to Be Jolly, after all, so she thought, _Why not indulge the suit?_ Though, if those 'Santas' indulged themselves anymore, she thought they would be spoiling their jolly red suits, and spilling their red buttons and red innards all over the yellow tabletop – had they been real 'Santas,' of course – which was never a good look, yellow and red, unless you were a McDonald's employee, or a pizza.

She took out another serviette from the serviette holder, and folded it neatly in half and pressed it down with her fingers for a few seconds. "Oh ho! A sleigh! A sleigh! A craft, a vessel of great delight, and pixie sprite!" she chimed to herself. "A sight! What a sight! This night, this cold, December night!" Satisfied, she pushed the completed sleigh across the table, toward the 'Santas'. "'To the skies!' a jolly fellow cries, dressed in red. In red, from toe to head. In red, but _not_ in bed?"

"Ah, actually, the boots are black," a voice interrupted, amused, and the woman glanced up from her work – the second 'sleigh' – her head whipping around to face the tall, young man with the laughing, disbelieving smile who'd spoken.

The woman's eyes narrowed, and blackened momentarily – the intention being menace – before they cleared again, and the tall, young man slid into the orange booth across the table from her. Her hands – both of them now – pushed the unfinished 'sleigh' from her, as though in disgust or disregard, and she eyed the smiling man in indifference and scorn, somehow, at the same time.

At the man's appearance, the frilly waitress the woman had shrugged off returned, and the man, still smiling, ordered coffee.

The traffic continued in an endless stream beyond the diner's glass windows; the woman watched this world for several minutes, before finally dragging her eyes from the pedestrians and vehicles and turning her gaze to the man's now unsmiling face. "Sam." Serious; hiding aggravation.

"Ruby." Unwavering; hiding fierceness.

The waitress returned – blonde, but named Coco – mug in hand, and placed the mug down at the table, bending to afford its male occupant a serious view, to go with the serious expression in her eyes.

"Happy Christmas!" Spat, falsely festive, after the waitress had departed, though, Ruby thought, for her own, personal Happy Christmas, 'dearly' departed would entail much more delight.

Ignoring the jab, Sam sipped his coffee in silence.

Infuriated, Ruby treated herself to a marshmallow. Sam was going to make her fat, damn him! On a sudden spur of inspiration, she dipped her hand back inside the bag, curling her fingers around a soft, powdery marshmallow – it would be a shame to waste it – and simultaneously extracted the small, sugary object and slowly lifted her eyes, narrowed in deviousness, from the plastic lip of the bag to aim her shot, and flung the marshmallow across the table to hit Sam square in the shoulder.

At Sam's look of surprise, she dropped the grin, ready for when Sam confronted her, frowning.

She rounded her eyes in surprise and pleasure. "Telekinesis, Sammy! Wow, that really is something."

Sam met her gaze with a scowl, which she chose to purposely ignore.

"Do it again!" she chirped, all girlish delight. "I dare you. No, I _double_ dare you!" 'Double' a great, big naughty – "Gosh, did I say that?" – gasp!

Sam reached for his mug again, in a show of great disinterest, which she knew was only a show.

She took another marshmallow out of the bag, and threw it at him.

His eyes snapped to hers in an instant. "Cut it out!" he growled in clear displeasure.

She smiled sweetly at him, and popped a marshmallow into her mouth. Cut what out? She had no idea what he was talking – or rather, grousing – about.

Content in her victory, she reached into the bag to pull out another marshmallow – she was really working her way through the bag; she'd have to buy another before she left – and found a marshmallow sitting in her lap, a white powder mark adorning her faux fur-lined jacket. "Sam!"

Sam grinned and tossed the other marshmallow – the one she'd first throw at him – across the table back at her, and she reached into the bag for another to fling at him, and then a whole handful – which given all those she'd already eaten, amounted to a meagre handful – but which still had them deposited from the diner, onto the sidewalk, as surely as a down-and-dirty food fight, or old-fashioned shootout, spaghetti Western style, would have.

Evicted from the warmth of the diner, with no possibility of the purchase of a second bag of marshmallows, Ruby fumed.

Standing beside her, arms folded against the cold, Sam grinned, whilst Ruby pretended he didn't exist.

They walked in silence on the long trudge, for Sam, back to the Impala, and, for Ruby, toward Sam's older brother, Dean's, beloved black Chevrolet.

_I'm losing more weight walking to Dean's stupid car than those couple marshmallows I ate put on,_ Ruby thought in irritation, her arms, like Sam's, crossed against the cold, though she wore a winter jacket, and she was a demon, and wasn't sure at which her irritation was directed more strongly – Sam, or the damn cold!

They came to what had to be about the third set of traffic lights – another hold up, and in _this_ weather – and, fed up – and cold – Ruby shot a bored glance to either side of her, before stepping down from the footpath to cross the road, before being rudely yanked back onto the sidewalk by who she could only assume was Sam, as it was his arms around her middle.

"JERK!" she hurled the insult after the driver of the car, now speeding away from her, at full volume, though it was ridiculous to think that he or she would hear her. "WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR LICENSE?"

She watched the car disappear around a corner, and others fleetingly fill up her vision in its wake, and realised that Sam's arms were still around her, making it hard to breathe and shout obscenities at the top of her lungs at the same time, and frowned in annoyance.

"Let go, Sam!" she told him, voice dripping with Obviousness, outweighing, at second best, Sarcasm.

Across the street, the walk sign changed to green. It was time to take out Annoyance, Ruby thought.

"It's not a toy," Sam breathed in a faint whisper, a hiss stolen by the wind, or the hair and jacket hood blanketing her ears.

Ruby couldn't tell if he'd wanted to say more, because she had impulsively interrupted with an impatient, "Green for Go, Sammy!" at holler volume, and Sam's arms loosened their hold on her, and returned to their rightful owner, and by the time she'd stopped to wonder if Sam had been talking about the body she'd taken as her vessel, or of life itself, and, if so, exactly which life – the body's, or hers – she was striding boldly toward the curb, midway between sidewalks, and couldn't afford to falter lest Sam, who was walking behind her, notice, or she befall herself another clumsy accident as she had earlier that day; also a high scorer on the Incredibly Embarrassing _And_ Stupid meter.

What was a puny, pathetic mortal body to her, she pondered, when she could easily replace it with another? To her, to take another body would be nothing more than an inconvenience, though, it would likely predictably appal squeaky sane Sam's disgustingly incessant do-gooder 'alter,' which, in the face of things, would prove a much larger inconvenience, and one that, for the moment, she could not risk.

_Once again, Sammy W. saves the day!_ she trilled inwardly, and wondered if there was enough left of the body's 'soul' for Sam to even waste his breath and effort on, or her to waste her taunts on.

She didn't stop or slow to wait for Sam to catch up, though she knew that it was Sam who knew the direction to go to find the Impala and not her, and heard, a short while later, from behind her, Sam's hesitant but over-inflated, "Ah, Ruby?" but just to antagonise him, she kept walking. "Ruby, hey!" he called after her, his voice further away than before, as though he'd not bothered to follow her. "The Impala's this way!"

With an angry flash of her eyes, she turned on her heel, and found her suspicions confirmed; Sam standing a good distance away from her. Directing her anger into her leg muscles, she stomped back the way she'd come, and turning to where Sam had directed his gaze, stomped off toward the Impala.

Her 'reward' for her ill temperament, of course, was Christmas songs, all the way back to the motel. By the time they pulled up in the motel parking lot, Ruby thought her brain was going to explode – and it wasn't even _her_ brain!

Before she snapped and hit back with a biting reply, which would only upset Sam, Ruby reminded herself that her ordeal for the day was almost over. She could rip the stupid tape out of the cassette player and rip it to pieces, or she could grab the door handle and push the door open and get out of the car.

They'd met, Sam had had nothing to say to her; she'd had nothing to say to him, and Sam was back in one piece.

She grabbed the door handle and ripped the car door open, and climbed out of the Impala, refraining, at the last moment, from slamming the door as hard as she could. Dean's bitching was one added 'hell' that she didn't need today! Wasn't it supposed to be the 'festive' season, not the 'festering' (or, in other words, 'Rot in Hell') season?

On the other side of the Impala, she heard Sam slam the door shut – with considerably less force than she would have used – but did not turn to face him, or relax her frosty posture, and they both stood out in the cold for three or four minutes – Sam waiting for her to do anything, presumedly – before Sam finally attempted to clear his throat, but ended up coughing because of the dry cold instead. "Look, Ruby," he began.

Ruby was beginning to lose feeling in the ends of her fingers, though, she didn't care. She didn't care what Sam had to say, either.

Sam sighed heavily – heavy enough that, over the wind, which had picked up, she was still able to hear him do so – and rested his arms on the Impala roof with a dull thud, after which she imagined he had rested his head on his arms, though she'd be damned if she was turning to look.

It was only when she heard the sound of crunching footsteps, growing duller as they proceeded, that she understood that Sam had walked away and left her alone, though, in contrast to her expectations, he did not slam the motel door after himself, but closed it quietly, as though wary of being thrown out of yet another _warm_ place, or merely of waking Dean.

Without turning for visual confirmation, she crossed her arms, and walked away from the Impala and the motel.

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